


From the Dead Temple

by tinygreyghost



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-21
Updated: 2015-03-21
Packaged: 2018-03-18 18:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3579552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinygreyghost/pseuds/tinygreyghost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mage Lavellan, Iron Bull, Dorian and Varric are on a quest to retrieve an artefact from an ancient elven temple that goes very bad. Bull doubts his ability to fix the situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From the Dead Temple

**Author's Note:**

> Non-con is not in this chapter and won't be explicit when it happens.

A broken stone owl, far bigger even than Iron Bull, stands at the mouth of the ruins. Flakes of snow drift in on the howling wind, but the side of the mountain mercifully keeps out the worst of the weather. The slanting stone corridors lead in to sepulchral darkness.

The temple to Falon’Din in the Frostback Mountains is mostly buried now, which Bull supposes is appropriate seeing as, according to Lavellan, he’s kind of a god of the underworld. There was a landslide a couple of hundreds of years ago, which tore the rock out from under the temple and sent it tumbling into a chasm. Only a few of the entrance halls and chambers remain accessible above ground, and it’s in these that the Avvar tribe of the Dead Temple has settled.

It’s not clear whether the Avvar tribesmen leading them are their escorts or their captors. There are nine of them, unspeaking and heavily armed with clubs, walking on both sides of their party. 

Just in case, Iron Bull stays close to Lavellan, who is still wrapped up and hooded in his black fur robes. His attention seems to be on the ancient elvhen carvings in the rock, rather than any possible danger. Bull loves his Inquisitor dearly, but the guy’s a typical nerdy mage.

Varric follows close behind, just as he did through the mountains. He would have been wading through snow banks up to his chest, if Bull hadn’t gone in front to cut a path for him. 

Dorian’s at the back of the party, in his red magecoat that has shown up like a bloodstain in the snow. He brushes the frost from his shoulders irritably, as he’d brush away lint. His golden-brown skin seems out of place in a landscape of shadows and stark whiteness. Bull would have been more worried about him in this damn cold, had Dorian not provided constant proof of life with a steady stream of complaint. 

“Accursed place,” Dorian mutters, as if on cue. “I keep thinking _well, this is it. This must truly be the worst place in the South, and, therefore, of course, in the world. There can’t possibly be anywhere more wretched in Thedas than here._ And then, what happens, but our dear leader contrives to bring us somewhere even bleaker.”

Bull and Lavellan share a fondly exasperated eyeroll. 

“You think your head would explode if you stopped griping for half a second?” Bull calls back to Dorian 

“I guarantee your head would explode if you tried shutting me up,” Dorian says cheerfully.

The cracked temple floor comes to an abrupt end, where the end of the hall has collapsed at a sharp incline. Overhead, a gap in the rock is open all the way up to the blank white sky. Snow falls through, relentless and silent, and piling up on the treacherous ground. 

The Avvar begin the descent to the lower level. One of them looks at Lavellan, doubtfully considering his tiny frame and bulky black furs, but Lavellan promptly sets off down the climb, moving with the confident grace of the Dalish. The tribesman gives an approving grunt and moves off behind him. 

Bull takes it more slowly than either Lavellan or the tribesmen. There’s very little to hold on to, and, not for the first time, he wishes he’d chosen a lighter weapon than his axe. At one point, he feels his feet begin to slide against the ice, and he only just manages to save himself, skinning his arm against the rock.

“Watch yourself,” he says to Varric. 

When he at last reaches the bottom, where the tribesmen are waiting, Lavellan is already stretching up to help Varric down. Bull turns back for Dorian, but finds that one of the tribesmen has taken Dorian’s hand and is assisting him down. 

“Many thanks,” says Dorian when he’s on flat ground once more. He flashes his helper a dazzling smile, which, judging by the tribesman’s red cheeks, turns out to be as effective on Avvar as it is just about everyone else they meet. 

Bull leans in to Lavellan and, in an undertone, asks, “Did you think to tell him not to flirt?”

“Didn’t think I had to,” Lavellan murmurs. He sounds resigned, but there’s the hint of a crooked smile on his lips. 

“Make friends everywhere, don’t you, Sparkler?” Varric says, eyeing Dorian speculatively. 

“Must be my winning personality,” says Dorian. He swings the end of his staff towards the shadowy halls. “Shall we?” he says to Lavellan. 

Lavellan, in turn, gestures for the Avvar to start off again. 

For a long while, they walk through the ruins, which have toppled down the side of the mountain at all kinds of angles as though some great hand has shaken them up. Whereas Bull definitely doesn’t approve of anyone being able to get the drop on him, he grudgingly admits that it’s just as well the Avvar ambushed them up on the surface when they did. There’s no way they would have been able to find their way into the temple without the Avvar to lead them. 

By the time he hears noises of a settlement nearby, Bull is pretty damn lost in the darkness. He hopes Lavellan or Varric has more of a clue, because he really doesn’t like not knowing his exits. He suspects, however, that Lavellan has been concentrating on the stone carvings they pass. Whenever Lavellan comes to a halt in order to better study some piece of rock or barely-there inscription, the tribesmen make it very clear they don’t like it. 

“Chief Tavlok is waiting,” one of them says, when Lavellan has spent a little too long reading something on the wall. He casts a distrustful glance at the whispering handful of green veilfire Lavellan has conjured for light, then makes to prod Lavellan into moving. 

“You know, if you touch him, I’ll have to kill you,” Bull remarks in a conversational tone.

The tribesman looks at Bull, appreciates the fact that Bull is monstrous and mean-looking, and decides better of physically moving Lavellan along. 

“Chief Tavlok is waiting,” he insists instead. 

With one last wistful look at the wall, Lavellan kills his veilfire and rejoins the group. 

:::

Chief Tavlok is impressively large by human standards. He’d make a passable Qunari, minus the grey skin, big horns and good looks, of course. Also, Iron Bull dislikes him on sight. 

The central area, in which the chief holds court, also serves as the main living space for the large tribe. Conditions are certainly not luxurious, but not uncomfortable either. Scattered campfires provide uneven patches of light and animal hides are spread out on the ground. There is an acrid, musty smell of livestock and unwashed bodies. A few goats stand in a pen, bleating disconsolately. 

The tribe is loud and busy - the women are carrying out domestic chores while the men whittle arrows or play games of dice. More than one baby is wailing somewhere.

At the end of the hall, Chief Tavlok sits on a stone block for his throne, surrounded by his warriors. A massive club that looks to have been fashioned from a giant’s thighbone rests against his side in easy reach. He is a very big man. The breadth of his shoulders is evident even from beneath his vast bearskin cape.

As Lavellan and the others enter the hall, a silence falls over the tribe. The chief raises his head to watch them approach but says nothing. 

Bull acknowledges that they must make a pretty unusual spectacle. The only human among them is Dorian, whose dark, sun-bronzed beauty and highly ornamented outfit clearly mark him as being from the north. There is Bull himself: a huge, one-eyed qunari, and Varric: a dwarf who grins at anyone who cares to meet his gaze. And then there is Lavellan: so tiny and dark.

Out of courtesy to the chief, Lavellan lifts his elegant white hands to his hood and pushes it back, and, even with the fall of his silky dark hair, there is absolutely no way anyone can miss the points of his ears. 

Obviously surprised, the chief leans forward on his throne. 

“Showtime,” Varric mutters to Lavellan. 

“Chief Tavlok, we are honoured to be allowed to come before you. I am Lavellan, leader of the Inquisition. My friends are-“

“You,” says the chief to Dorian. “You own this elf?” he asks, gesturing to Lavellan with a twitch of his finger.

In the pale column of Lavellan’s throat, a muscle flickers. He tightens his jaw. A hard glint enters his pretty sloe-black eyes. To the tribe he appears composed as ever, but those tiny tells make Bull fully aware of just how furious he is. 

“No. No-one owns the Lord High Inquisitor,” Dorian says smoothly. “I serve him.”

“We _all_ serve him.” Varric adds. 

The chief looks surprised, then looks back at Lavellan. While Chief Tavlok openly looks him up and down, Lavellan keeps his head held high, a polite smile frozen on his lips. Then the chief laughs, genuinely entertained. Several of his warriors join his laughter. 

At last, his mirth subsides, and he motions to Lavellan, saying, “Speak then, free elf.”

Lavellan, to his credit, resumes as if uninterrupted. “I am Lavellan, leader of the Inquisition’s forces. My friends are The Iron Bull, Varric Tethras of Kirkwall and Dorian of House Pavus. We have come seeking your help in entering the temple ruins.”

The chief frowns. “There are many bad spirits down there. It’s a cursed place. Why would you want to go there?” 

The truth is that, if the old elven gods _are_ waking up, it’s worth gathering the writings of the priests that worshipped them and knew them best. Iron Bull appreciates the value of knowing as much about your enemy as you can, even if you're not sure yet that they're going to be your enemies. 

Obviously though, Lavellan’s not going to tell Chief Tavlock that. That’s a complicated discussion, and one likely to cause panic. Bull thinks that if the tribe starts panicking, especially the warriors with clubs and axes and spears, things are liable to turn violent. 

“There is relic, sacred to my people, that we wish to retrieve.” The chief’s face lights up. _Greedy fucker_ , Bull thinks. Lavellan seems not to have noticed, and smoothly adds, “It’s only a book. Worthless to most, but precious to my people.”

“Bah,” says the chief. His interest lost, he sits back in his makeshift throne. “A book? I told you, that place is full of bad spirits. A book is not worth dying over.” 

Lavellan’s smile is beatific. “We have no intention of dying, Chief Tavlok.”

The Chief is silent, and so the rest of the tribe stays quiet. He considers them. Bull knows to trust his instinct, and though it is only a brief moment, he dislikes the way the chief’s eyes linger on Lavellan. Bull knows that Lavellan can take care of himself. He’s seen Lavellan magic bloody swathes through a battlefield. However, he’s also had plenty of experience of people seeing a small, lovely and apparently delicate elf, and deciding to do something dumb.

Then the chief nods slowly. “Perhaps you _might_ be able to vanquish the spirits,” he allows. “One of my hunters could show you the path down, for you’d never reach it safely without our help. But, what if you only anger the spirits?” He gestures widely enough to encompass the whole tribe. “I have many people to protect. What if you anger the spirits and they seek vengeance on my tribe?”

“We’ve fought many spirits and demons before,” says Lavellan. 

It’s beside the point. Everyone knows it. Varric sighs and rubs his hand over his face, hiding a smirk. As a merchant-prince, he must have been to hundreds of this type of negotiation. Bull makes a mental note to ask him later if he’s ever seen one of these transactions take place where everyone explicitly states from the outset what it is they want. He's willing to wager the answer would be no.

“Perhaps I would be more willing to take this risk if I thought it might bring us some good fortune,” says the chief thoughtfully. “There must be many treasures in the temple. Perhaps while you search for your book, you might also bring something for my people.”

Lavellan looks politely receptive to this suggestion, as if they hadn’t already discussed this very possibility at the start of the quest. “I don’t know what else there might be in the temple, but I give you my word that my friends and I will endeavour to find something of worth, as thanks for your friendship and aid.”

At once, Chief Tavlok is all smiles. “I commend your bravery. Now, eat, rest! I will speak with my hunters and arrange a guide.”


End file.
